The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (27 page)

Meeker got out of the VW and waited for Coleman before meeting Markowitz halfway up the driveway. After verifying their identities, Markowitz extended his hand and introduced himself. “Welcome, men. I’m Sterling Markowitz. I see you didn’t have any trouble finding our little hideout.”

“No, not at all,” replied Coleman. “Frank gave us very precise directions.”

“Good. Let’s go inside and have a drink. You can fill me in while we wait for the others to arrive. Do you have any idea when they’ll be getting here?”

“It shouldn’t be too long,” Coleman answered. “They were ahead of us when we left Chesapeake Beach. They must have stopped somewhere along the way. I expect they’ll be arriving shortly.”

The men stepped into the house and were met by some of the command center personnel, who were busy hauling equipment up from the basement.

“Geez, you guys aren’t wasting any time are you?” Markowitz exclaimed.

“No. We want to get the stuff loaded up so we can be out of here right after the debriefing. We have to get back to our day jobs before people start missing us. I only had two weeks of vacation and it’ll be up the day after tomorrow,” replied one of the techs.

Markowitz introduced Meeker and Coleman to the tech, who stated, “You had us a little nervous for a while. We were monitoring the little episode behind the house.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Coleman, who was unaware of Lutcher’s demise. “But it all turned out all right. The others will be back with our errant member shortly. Then we’ll be able to discuss how to avoid similar problems in the future.”

“What’ll it be, gentlemen? I’ve got bourbon, scotch, vodka, and brandy. The only thing I don’t have is tequila,” Markowitz offered.

“Do you have any rum?” Coleman asked.

“No, I don’t have that either.”

“In that case, I’ll have bourbon.”

“You got it. What about you, Meeker?”

“Bourbon’s fine.”

Larry Wohler appeared at the door. “Hey, Sterling, you’re not drinking without me, are you?”

“No. Of course not. Come on in and join us, Larry.”

Markowitz introduced Coleman and Meeker to Wohler, poured the drinks, and led the way to the dining room. “So how about filling me in on the details. I’m particularly interested in knowing about the new guy and the problem with Lutcher.”

“You probably know as much as we do from watching your satellite feed,” Coleman said. “Dodge and I were on the perimeter and became aware of Ryan—that’s the new guy’s name—when the entry team came out after taking care of Judd. As far as the problem around back, we didn’t see what actually took place, but it had to do with Lutcher wanting to kill a couple of kids who’d happened upon them with their dog. The others objected and Lutcher got a bit irrational and had to be shot when he pulled out his rod and threatened Tucker and Young.”

“Yeah, I know about the shooting. We saw it on the screen but couldn’t make out who actually did it. Who was it?” Markowitz asked.

“It was Dominic Fachini. He’s on top of things. When Tucker took too long coming back to the front of the house, Dominic went to see what the holdup was. When he saw Lutcher waving his gun around, he winged him before Dave could carry out what looked like a threat to shoot not only the kids, but possibly Tucker and Young, as well.”

“I guess we’re going to have to discuss a better selection process for the teams. We can’t sustain a cohesive organization with people like Lutcher in our ranks. I’m surprised that as a former CIA operative, he displayed such erratic behavior,” Markowitz observed.

“Yeah, well, I guess you really never know until you’re actually operational who your people are or what makes them tick. Training is fine, but it doesn’t paint the full picture of how people will act under certain situations, especially unforeseen ones,” Meeker said.

Markowitz was about to answer when one of the techs entered the room. “Sterling, you’ve got to come and see this!” He sounded as if whatever he wanted the boss to see was urgent.

“See what, Pete?”

“The raid. It’s all over the news. Every friggin’ channel is carrying it,” the tech replied.

Markowitz got up from the table and entered the living room, followed by Wohler, Coleman, and Meeker.

The men stood mesmerized in front of the television as several reporters, broadcasting simultaneously from different parts of the country, shared similar stories with the realization that a nationwide assassination plot against some very prominent Americans might have just been carried out.

Switching through the channels, Markowitz tuned in to one with two reporters talking live on the air by phone.

“Ralph, this is Dan Travis in New York. What can you tell us about the situation up in New Hampshire? Has it been confirmed that Vidor Orosz has been murdered?”

“Yes, Dan. The facts are trickling in piecemeal, but what we know for sure is that Mr. Orosz was found dead by his maid in the bedroom of his home at six a.m. He was hanging from a ceiling beam.”

“Usually when there’s a hanging, suicide is considered. Why were the authorities so quick to rule this homicide, Ralph?”

“His hands were bound behind his back and he had duct tape over his mouth,” Richardson replied.

“I see. I guess that would be a good indicator. Thanks, Ralph.”

“You’re welcome, Dan. I’ll keep you apprised of any further developments as they come in.”

Travis looked into the camera. “As you’ve just heard, Ralph Richardson, from our affiliate station in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, has confirmed that Vidor Orosz, the billionaire Hungarian activist and close friend of the president, has been murdered in his rural New Hampshire home. Orosz, a controversial champion of leftist and radical Islamic causes, was found by his maid around six a.m. this morning hanging from a ceiling beam in his bedroom with his hands bound behind his back. The murder of Mr. Orosz may be the tip of the iceberg in what seems to be a nationwide conspiracy against people with similar political leanings by perpetrators who are, as yet, unknown. Several other killings that may be related have been reported in Dearborn, Michigan; Portland, Oregon; and Seattle, Washington.

“In the Dearborn incident, a well-known Muslim civil-rights activist and banker, Rashid Youseff, and two of his associates were found gunned down in the offices of the Messengers of Medina. Youseff was active
in pro-Palestinian causes and was suspected of using his position as president of the Bank of Saladin to shield and dispense money to Middle East terrorists conducting jihad against Israel. He was also an associate of Vidor Orosz, which may indicate a connection to his murder and that of the wealthy Hungarian immigrant.”

Markowitz was in the process of switching to a different station to see if there was any additional coverage when the door opened.

Ryan, Hatcher, Tucker, Fachini, and Young entered the living room and were motioned over to the TV.

“We’ve already caused a tsunami and they haven’t even found out about all of our hits yet,” Markowitz said. He looked over at Wohler and continued, “Larry, monitor the TV while I go in the other room with these guys and talk. I want to get the lowdown on what happened with Lutcher and meet the new guy before the others get back later today.”

“You got it, boss,” Wohler replied.

Markowitz entered the room and took his seat at the head of the table. He stared at Ryan for several seconds before addressing Tucker. “Okay, Frank, suppose you tell me about our new member and fill me in on how he wound up here with us. After you’re through making the introduction and explaining his presence, we’ll talk about Lutcher.”

Tucker glanced at Ryan and then nodded to Markowitz. “Ryan, this is the leader of our group, Sterling Markowitz. Like the rest of us, he is a former intelligence officer who came to the conclusion long ago that our intel agencies have been hog-tied by
regulations imposed upon them by politicians buckling to special interests.”

Ryan looked at Markowitz’s expressionless face and extended his hand. “Ryan O’Hara, sir, pleased to meet you.”

“I’ll let you know if the feeling is mutual after I learn a little more about you,” Markowitz said, but nevertheless shook Ryan’s hand.

Tucker addressed Ryan as he continued, “I’m sure Hatcher filled you in on the purpose of our organization on the trip down here and explained the reason for our mission last night.”

“Yes, he did,” Ryan answered.

“So tell me, O’Hara, how did you happen to wind up at the location of one of our targets on the same night we were carrying out simultaneous operations in several different states?” Markowitz asked.

Ryan gave as brief an explanation as he could without getting into all the details. “Unlike your group’s reason for being there, which, incidentally, I happen to agree with, I was there for strictly personal reasons.”

“How’s that?”

“When I was eight years old, Lenin’s Legion, the terrorist organization that Judd belonged to, was responsible for the assassination of a police officer in San Francisco. The officer was Sergeant Mortimer O’Hara, and he was my grandfather.”

“Kind of a long time to carry a grudge like that around on your shoulders, don’t you think?” observed Markowitz.

“It would probably seem that way to most people, but I couldn’t let it go. The murder of my grandfather
destroyed the lives of everyone in the family and left me with an inner turmoil that I couldn’t shake. My peace of mind depended on evening the score and that’s what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks,” Ryan reasoned.

“Tell me a little bit about your family. You say the killing of your grandfather destroyed it. I’m interested in knowing about that,” Markowitz said.

Ryan explained, “My grandmother died young because of it and my dad was never the same. He took to drinking, and not long after he retired, the booze killed him. My mother had already died from cancer and he just gave up. My sister has been a semi-psycho with deep-rooted emotional problems for most of her life and my brother is an antisocial alcoholic who can’t stay married or hold a steady job. I’m the only one of my family who was able to get up from the ground, brush myself off, and lead a semi-normal life, thanks in large part to a Catholic boys’ home that I attended during my teen years. Thanks also to my career in the U.S. Army.”

“Is Judd the only one you took out, or were there others?” asked Markowitz.

“No, Judd was only the latest. I targeted several other Lenin’s Legion members as well. I’m happy to say that, so far, I’m batting a thousand on kills.”

“And who were these other people?” Markowitz asked, although he already knew the answer.

“They were…”

Markowitz interrupted, “They were the Delgadillos in Chicago, Hayward in Sedona, Arizona, and Finnegan in New York. Am I getting warm?”

“I’d say you’re probably about as hot as a forest fire,” Ryan said. “The scumbags you just named all had a hand
in the murder of my grandfather. The one who actually planted the bomb was Brenda Delgadillo, but they were all equally responsible as far as I’m concerned.”

Markowitz looked at Wohler. “So this is the busy little beaver who deprived you of the pleasure of killing the Delgadillos.”

“You owe me one, O’Hara,” Wohler said, feigning annoyance.

“Are these the only killings you’ve carried out? And if so, are you planning any more?” asked Markowitz.

“Yes, they’re the only ones I’ve carried out directly.”

“What do you mean, they’re the only ones you’ve carried out directly?”

“I mean that I farmed out a couple of contracts to a friend of mine, who called in some favors from some of his pals inside San Quentin. He had a couple of members of the African Guerrilla Brotherhood rubbed out in the exercise yard.”

“What the hell did the African Guerrilla Brotherhood have to do with Lenin’s Legion and the campaign you’ve been waging?”

“Nothing. But the Black Socialist Army—the separatist organization that the two Brotherhood pukes who were offed at Q belonged to—did. They were members of that organization when they killed an old sergeant friend of my grandfather who had taken me under his wing when I was living at the Catholic boys’ home.”

“How’d they kill him?”

“They sent a Lenin’s Legion slut by the name of Janet Hanoian into the district station and had her make a false report that she’d been raped. The old sergeant rounded up some patrolmen and went to a
vacant house that was supposedly the rape scene, and when they opened the front door, a bomb blew up the front porch, killing my mentor and wounding a couple of other cops.”

“And…?”

“After the bombing, a shootout occurred with some other cops who had answered the call for assistance. The driver of the getaway vehicle was killed and the slut was mortally wounded. The two survivors, Albert Jefferson and Anthony Upton, were captured and sent to the joint.”

“And that’s where they belatedly died,” Markowitz concluded.

Ryan nodded.

Markowitz looked at Hatcher and then Tucker.

“I’m going to consider O’Hara here as vetted. I’m making that determination based on his history of deadly accomplishments. You’ve both witnessed his willingness to kill traitors. Furthermore, Hatcher has vouched for him.”

Markowitz extended his hand to Ryan, and as the two men shook, Markowitz smiled and said, “Now you can be assured that I am pleased to make your acquaintance, O’Hara.”

With the pleasantries over, Markowitz looked at his watch. “I was going to wait until the others got here, but this story is progressing faster than I thought it would. It’s time for me to call the media.”

R
alph Richardson was getting frustrated. He’d been back at the newsroom in Portsmouth for just fifteen minutes and it seemed as though every affiliate in the country was calling at the same time, demanding more information on the demise of Vidor Orosz.

On top of having to deal with other journalists, Richardson was being besieged with calls from kooks wanting to confess to the crime and others who were sure they knew who had brought about the demise of the Hungarian.

“Yeah, yeah, right. I won’t forget. I’ll get back to you as soon as I develop more information. Yes, you can
count on it. You’re welcome,” Richardson said before he hung up the phone and headed for the door. He needed a few minutes outside to clear his head and collect his thoughts but was interrupted once again by one of his fellow reporters.